Winter's Assassin
by ncarraway
Summary: Agent Frost is hired to kill Elsa Romanov, a ruler with a sinister curse. Things do not go quite as planned. In which Elsa learns more about her powers, and Frost learns a little more about affection. Jelsa. AU.
1. Preparations

**Well hey there, lovely readers who are awesome enough to give this story a chance! **

**Yesterday I had a stroke of genius. Kind of.**

**What if I put my OTP in Tsar-ruled Russia - during WWI - and have one of them be an _assassin?_**

**I know. It sounded brilliant at the time, which was around 2:00 am. Besides the fact that Frozen or RoTG have _nothing _to do with pre-Communist, Czar-era Russia.  
**

**Major Disclaimer: This fic is pretty much 2378279% historically inaccurate. I'm pretty sure Elsa of Arendelle wasn't the last Czar, and unless he is a Time Lord, Russians living in the early 1900s should have no clue who Ryan Gosling is. **

**I DO NOT OWN FROZEN OR ROTG. They belong to Walt and DreamWorks, respectively.**

**Rated T for mild swearing (but heavy cursing in Polish).**

**Enjoy!**

**- ncarraway**

* * *

"Nothing burns like the cold." - George R.R. Martin, _A Song of Ice and Fire_

It didn't help that the Winter Palace was freezing that night.

Agent Frost pressed his face against his coat-collar, letting the snow dampen the wooly fabric. Long shards of ice frosted the stubble on his beard. He blinked, melting the snow with the warmth of his eyelids. The lights on the smooth, white palace contrasted with the neverending darkness.

It was sickening. All of it.

Earlier that day, he had received two shoulder punches - and a generous black eye - from two guys for whom Klaus did a little "favor", a cut on his left arm left by an excited arms dealer, also acquainted with Klaus, and a nasty bruise on his leg from a _very_ persistent vendor who kept trying to sell him a snow globe with - a poorly crafted - sculpture of a bear riding a tricycle.

As the lights ahead grew brighter and the voices from the banquet louder, he reminded himself that this was only half as bad as that time they wanted him to kill that guy from the Kremlin. That night, the temperature had dropped lower than a professional limbo dancer, low enough that he feared his fingers would crack if he tried to bend them. He loathed Russia - Klaus knew it - but the perpetually jolly fatass made him go, _again_. When he got back to G.U.A.R.D. he was going to strangle him with his long, white beard.

"Ey, _ey_!" A voice shattered his melancholiness. He turned to see a palace guard, no older than fifteen, waving his hands in the air. "What are you doing?" His ruddy cheeks reddened.

"_Ja pierdole_," Frost murmured, his breath creating evanescent tendrils in the thin air.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away faster, ignoring the boy.

"Ey!" The boy was still running after him, panting loudly in his oversized, red uniform. Frost rolled his eyes. _Idiot_.

He stopped, more snow abruptly falling in his face. He heard the skidding, crunching footsteps of the boy behind him. He listened carefully, using the rhythm to locate him.

Skid skid _crunch_, skid skid _crunch_.

"Ey!" This boy needed to expand his vocabulary. "What do you think you're doing?" Skid skid _crunch_, skid skid _crunch_, skid skid-

With one incisive blow to the face, the boy was out. The blood from his nose tainted the snow an alarming shade of pink.

Frost stood back, snow crunching beneath his own feet. He leaned back, satisfied - and slightly amused - by his handiwork. That punch was saved for Klaus, but this sufficed, too.

His jovial mood didn't last long. His well established scowl soon reverted itself back onto his face, and the crease between his brows deepened.

Cursing, he held one indelicate finger towards the palace, vowing never to come back to this polluted, industrial wasteland. A poor excuse for a country.

* * *

St. Petersburg always looked so peaceful at night. Without the incessant chugging of trains or the dense layer of smog, in Elsa's eyes, the snow-laden building could almost be, well, a _real_ Winter Palace.

Elsa gripped the cold railing below her, blue eyes fixed on a bare tree in the distance. This - this was what she needed, right? _Silence_. No distractions. She could concentrate. She could _control_ _it_. Even though it was below freezing outside, sweat rolled down her neck and into her pine-colored dress.

She closed her eyes, exhaling into the crisp, night air. She tried to picture herself at the moment - a small speck, a white dot on a white building in vast whiteness. _A small speck on white nothingness_, she reminded herself. She imagined herself standing on the roof of the building, snow covering the ground below her, the palace in all its splendor. _A small speck_.

Soon, the building was gone, leaving a dent in the snow, a large patch of grass where the snow hadn't fallen. All sounds of human voices and the trains disappeared, as if the audio had been cut from a movie. The blood pounding in her eardrums was all she heard, the swishing sound slowly rocking her to tranquility.

_White nothingness_, she conjured, and she was standing in it, in nothing, in oblivion. No one existed. She was just an fleeting essence, a small dent in the Universe. She could finally relax, feeling as if a huge encumbrance was being lifted off her back. No one was watching her. No one was judging her. No one was there.

This was it. This was what she needed. Concealment. Imperviousness. _Control_.

A chill sent her hands to her arms.

Her trance was broken. She was back on the balcony, her hair a mess and her arms freezing. Her dress had a stain in the shape of Belarus.

Frustration boiled inside of her. "No," she grunted, trying to repress the sudden sensation going freezing inside of her veins. Another breeze lifted her stray strands of platinum-blonde hair, entangling them into a ridiculous hair net.

_Let's try this again_, she thought. Taking off her blue, sterile gloves, she placed her hands back on the railing, gripping the marble as if it were her lifeline. She tried to repeat her earlier thoughts, her daily meditation process. She breathed in through her nose - out through her mouth, with her tongue pressing against the roof of her mouth. She gritted her teeth to quell the chills going down her spine.

_Nothingness, nothingness, nothingness, nothingness nothingness nothingness nothingness-_

The blast shocked her, sending her skidding back three steps. Her velvet slippers gripped onto the snowy balcony as tightly as possible, her hands shielding her eyes from the iridescent shards of ice flying into her face.

Her eyelids were as adamant as steel shutters, never once twitching or moving. One blink - a piece of ice in the right direction - and she could be blind.

She reached out towards that empty pocket of existence, her safe haven, that comforting oblivion. She couldn't find it. Reality was here. Here, with icy daggers flying into her peripheral vision.

When she couldn't hear the chiming sound of shattering ice and glass, she opened one eye, then the other - slowly and hesitantly, as if a block of ice could jump up and yell: _S__urprise! I'm still here!_

When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she gasped, her eyes growing wide in fear.

In her state of shock, she had created a lethal labyrinth of icy thorns, all forcing their way out of the cold marble of the balcony. The railing was completely frosted over - if she had not pulled away at the last second, it would have shattered into a million pieces of white marble.

Elsa took another step back, losing her balance on a sheet of ice and coming face to face with another one of her ice thorns. The blade nicked the tip of her nose, and a small drop of blood plopped onto the pristine ice beneath her feet.

Her speculations were right - her powers were getting stronger. She had nearly hurt herself today, and if she didn't learn to control and conceal her curse, someone else would get hurt.

The balcony door broke open, sending granules of ice into Elsa's face.

_No_, _no_, Elsa panicked. _Not right now_. In the doorway, illuminated by the warm light of the bedroom, stood a jaunty bunch of limbs and a shock of red hair.

"It's time! It's _finally_ time!" Anna jumped up and down, laughing as her dress flounced upwards, revealing her pantyhose in a very _un_ladylike manner. She took a step forward before opening her eyes. Her mouth dropped open, her green eyes resembling watermelons.

"Anna, no! Don't come closer!" Elsa yelled, shoving her arm out. "It's dangerous - you'll get hurt!"

Anna stood in the doorway, feet frozen in place, staring at Elsa's icy wonderland. She hadn't blinked yet. Elsa was beginning to think that she had put her sister in a state of eternal paralysis. With a sudden, numbing realization, Elsa realized that all her years of hiding were wasted. Her sister had found out, and there was no way there life would be normal ever again.

_This is it_, Elsa thought. _This is when all the secrets spill out_.

She ran over the many possible scenarios in her mind. Would Anna be okay with her curse? Or would she freak out and condemn her as a villain for the rest of her life? Elsa shuddered at the mere thought.

How would she explain this?_ See here's the thing, Anna_, she pictured herself saying, _I may be your despondent sister on the outside, but I'm actually a super powerful and dangerous sorceress with crazy ice powers who can destroy this entire city with a single sneeze. And oh yeah, I can't really control my powers, so you are in imminent danger right now._

No. Just - no.

Elsa took a deep breath. "Anna," she started, "I can explain-"

A moment of silence passed, the air heavy with tension. Anna still hadn't moved. Elsa wished she could turn back time, take Anna from the doorway, with her auburn hair tangled in her face and her mouth wide, and plop her back in the hall. Like none of this never happened.

Ten seconds passed. _Twenty_.

Finally, Anna spoke.

"Oh. My. God." Elsa winced, bracing herself for the blow. She was ready to hear the word _monster_, or _witch_. She could see it - ready to roll off the tip of her tongue.

Anna only squealed, eyes bright and cheery. "This is amazing!" Anna laughed and put Elsa in an unwitting headlock, barely dodging an ice spear as she pranced out onto the balcony.

"Wha- Anna, let _go_ of me," Elsa said, removing her younger sister's arms in repulsion. She was confused - she had just experienced the greatest anti-climax of her life.

Anna continued bouncing on her heels. "_Elsa_," she cried, "how did you _sculpt_ all of this?"

Elsa almost tripped on her ice. Relief flooded her body, and she offered a silent thank-you to the heavens. She turned to face Anna, who was still waiting, smiling with wide eyes, for a response.

"Well, I, uh," Elsa racked her brain for a plausible, non-idiotic alibi. "I practiced. A lot." So much for non-idiotic.

She took the bait. "All this time," Anna said, still staring at the ice "sculptures" in awe, "I thought you were locked up in your room, masturbating to shirtless pictures of Ryan Gosling and writing moody poems, but who knew you were the next Michael and Jello?"

Elsa scoffed. She straightened her back and locked her hands together in an I'm-more-important-than-you pose. "First of all, I have much more important business to attend to than movie stars and typical adolescent angst, and secondly, I believe you're referring to an Italian sculptor, not a gelatinous delicacy."

"Don't be such a pretentious crapnugget," Anna said. Elsa was constantly amused by her sister's vernacular. "This is a _party_, lighten up." She winked. "_Let it go_."

The icy balcony forgotten, Anna ran into Elsa's room, jumping onto her bed. Her thin frame sunk into the downy pillows. Sighing, Elsa followed her, begrudgingly, shutting - and locking - the balcony door.

"_Aaah_," Anna sighed, a sleepy smile beneath her half closed eyes. "This is going to be the best night ever."

Elsa smiled, looking at her younger sister disappear blissfully into the bed.

"Oh great goodness," Anna said, staring at the ceiling dreamily. "There's gonna be that absolutely _amazing_ chocolate fountain at the party tonight. _Mmm_. I just want to put my tongue in there and cover my face with chocolate. _Ugh_. So delicious."

She rolled over. "Ooh! _Ooh_! Elsa!" She sat up. Her royal bun looked like a raven's nest, and she was grinning a wide, Cheshire cat grin. "There will be -" She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, " - boys."

Elsa sighed in futility.

"Ooh, ooh!" Anna squealed again, as another train of thought approached her mental station, "What if that super handsome prince from Bulgaria comes again?" She shook her head, as if the mere mental image of him was too hot to handle. "Sweet sassy molassy," she sighed, "the _build_ on that boy."

Elsa scoffed, again. "You shouldn't objectify men based on their physical appearance," she said. "There are more things to keep in mind. His habits, traits, personality, the way he treats his mother-"

"Yeah," Anna groaned, "as if you are the expert on men here, Miss Dating Guru."

Before Elsa could retort with an angry lecture on physical objectification, Anna pulled her hand towards her. Elsa shrieked - a very unfeminine screech - and plopped onto the pillows.

The two sisters glanced at each other, trying to stop smiling. They hadn't hung out like this for a while. For months, the only interaction they had were brief nods in the hallways and silent breakfasts, the small moments of intersection before each sister returned to their separate lives.

Maybe Anna was right. Maybe Elsa needed to forget, to let it all go.

Anna sat up on the bed. "Come on, ya wet blanket," she said, yanking Elsa's hand with her. "We have a party to attend."

As she raced Anna down the hall, laughing and shrieking as they bumped into unfortunate guests or servants, Elsa soon forgot about the party, her powers, and everything. All that was left of the world were the two of them, the only bright and warm thing in a galaxy of white nothingness.

* * *

If a hapless attendee happened to be answering nature's call in the men's bathroom at nine o'clock that night, he would have been the sole witness to see a frozen figure in black collapse onto the perfectly polished granite.

"_Suka_," Frost said, clenching his teeth as he hit the ground. He couldn't see anything under his black cap, but he heard the sound of trickling water and smelled the faint scent of cleaning supplies.

After leaving the poor boy in the snow, Frost had scouted the entire perimeter of the palace, looking for open doors or windows and marking all of his data in his cognitive map - he had nearly photographic memory - and eventually traced a hole in a window with a laser. All this without being spotted. The Winter Palace security really needed to step up their game.

Lying on the washroom floor, Frost reveled in the sudden warmth. He laughed, almost hysterically, and started to make what looked like invisible snow angels on the floor, like an emaciated traveler in the desert finding an oasis.

"Woo, baby," he breathed, "_that's_ more like it."

Frost sat up, reminding himself about the task at hand. He tossed the bag slung over his shoulder onto the ground, dumping its contents.

"Game time," he said, smirking.

"Razors, check. Shaving cream, check. Scissors, check. Cologne, yep. Breath freshener, check."

He turned back and forth, suddenly aware that he was missing a crucial element of his ruse.

"Where's my suit?" _Damn it, Klaus. How am I supposed to do this wearing a battered trenchcoat and stained pants?_ He wondered. _I'll be surprised if the Tsarina doesn't run away._

As if on cue, a portly, middle-aged man with gelled hair walked into the washroom. He stopped, shiny shoes screeching - _alligator skin_ - as he witnessed Frost, on a heap in the floor, toiletries spilled around him, snow tumbling off of his masked face.

"Hello," Frost said.

Fifteen minutes later, the rich man was outside the window, bound in ropes and struggling to curse at Frost through the duct tape on his mouth. Frost adjusted the collar of his shirt - Westwood, by the way - and smoothed the expensive fabric over his chest. His brand new alligator skin shoes squeaked on the floor.

He studied his face, making sure the razor didn't miss any spots, and spritzed on his cologne. Nothing he was wearing was his, of course. He liked to think of it as involuntary, first-class consignment.

He thought about his plan, turning it over and over again in his head.

It was simple: he was going to seduce the young Tsarina, then poison her. His employer had chosen him especially for that job.

Placed in context, this assassination was not all that daunting. He had carried out even more distasteful operations before without getting caught. The poor Franz - that was _partly_ his handiwork - what, did the public _really_ think a nineteen-year-old could pull that off? The whole _Titanic_ fiasco, the Panama Canal skirmish, the Triangle fire, the U-boat, and even Budapest. Ah, Budapest. Frost smiled at the memory. In each case he was a vanishing catalyst - there, but not there.

But there was something about off about this particular mission. All of his other operations were on important political figures and tycoons, middle-aged men who smoked too much and had too many prostitutes and vacation houses in Florida. But this - this was going to be carried out on a young woman. An innocent young woman. He'd seen photographs of the girl before. In each picture, she held her head up sternly and regally, the conventional pose of a ruler not to be trifled with. Although he couldn't place it, there was something behind her eyes, something unknown, something with fear. She looked like she was hiding a secret.

He wasn't sure what objective his employer was trying to achieve. Even if he killed the Tsarina, another Tsarina would take her place, albeit a less capable one, the younger sister. Besides the two of them, there were plenty of successors - distant cousins - who were next in line for the throne, and as far as he knew, his employer had no connection whatsoever with the Romanov family.

Plus, revolution was stirring among the citizens - he could feel it in the way they walked with their heads bowed, sense it in the way they looked at one another conspiratorially, see it in their eyes when they mobilized for the war. In a decade or two the Tsars would be ousted, anyway.

Frost didn't speculate any further. He learned, with difficulty, to never question the motives of his employer.

Before leaving the restroom, he pulled off his hat and watched as his uncanny white hair spilled over his forehead, feathery and dry from the heat inside. He ruffled his hair.

"Game on." he whispered to his reflection. A pair of icy blue eyes stared back at him impassively. "Let's go kill a Tsarina."

* * *

Elsa shivered, but not from the cold. A velvet curtain was the only thing keeping her from the crowd, the throng of people waiting, expecting her to come out.

"Loyal subjects," called the announcer, "I present to you, with honor and dignity . . ."

Elsa smoothed out her green dress and fastened her gloves. _Conceal_. _Don't feel_.

"Elsa Arendelle Romanov," came the booming voice, "the Tsarina of Russia."

With a deep breath, Elsa parted the curtain and looked down at the golden ballroom, with golden men and golden women clapping for her.

_Control_.

She could do this.

She was ready.

* * *

Frost looked up among the spectators at the girl in green. She looked much older than in the pictures, and he couldn't help but notice how soft her platinum hair was.

But then he saw it. The fear, the unknown emotion in her terrified blue eyes. To the average spectator, she would have looked as calm and placid as any other ruler, but Frost knew.

For a second, Frost believed he couldn't do it. He couldn't kill someone so unassuming and afraid.

Never question me, he remembered his employer saying.

_Obedience_.

He could do this.

He was _ready_.

* * *

**_Psst_. Hey, you. Yeah you. Did you have a pleasurable reading experience? Did you think this story is the bomb-diggity? If so, then don't be a pretentious crapnugget and review! :)**

**Don't cry, hardcore Jelsa fans - our OTP will meet in the next chapter. **

**I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter - please follow, favorite, and review! Constructive criticism is appreciated.**


	2. Nice Weather

**Woohoo, I'm back . . . with Chapter Two! **

**Thank you to all of those who reviewed, favorited, and followed this story! Every review is super important because it encourages me to continue this.**

**Also, thanks to my beta foxtailred for fixing all of my cringe-worthy grammar mistakes. **

**This chapter was a bit rushed. I hope you all enjoy it, anyway!**

* * *

"Snow was falling,  
so much like stars  
filling the dark trees  
that one could easily imagine  
its reason for being was nothing more  
than prettiness." - Mary Oliver

* * *

One of the advantages of working with G.U.A.R.D.? The free drinks.

The best one prior to this occasion, arguably, was from the Honduras - the little coconut martini with the mint and lemon wedges - which he had received as compensation for a minor submarine accident. In second place, the heavy whiskey from Belfast. No flavor at all, but sometimes he drank not to savor, but to forget. Another concoction worthy of an honorable mention was the mind-numbing tea from Nanjing. Closing his eyes, he could still smell the fragrance of the lotus flowers and feel the heat steaming from the porcelain cup.

None of the above held a candle to vodka. It was a strong drink, a drink to forget, and one he needed at that particular moment.

Frost had spent most of his evening at the palace ordering the liquor from the waiters, who fluttered around assiduously like black and white moths - attracted only to the bright and ornately dressed patrons at the scene.

In this case, he passed easily as one. His silk suit stuck to his sides, shining as he moved, and his hair brushed lightly over his dark eyebrows.

The ladies were loving it.

Earlier, he saw several of them huddled in a pack, giggling out of the corner of his eye as he strolled past them. Later, he had bumped into a fine little vixen who looked at him a beat longer than usual. As much as he hated it, he was going to try to enjoy St. Petersburg as much as possible.

A petite brunette in an emerald gown caught his eye. Her red lips turned upwards.

He smirked back.

"Waiter," he called, raising a hand in the air. A stout man came scurrying over, his white coattails fluttering behind him like the angry sails of a ship.

"Two," Frost said, taking a orange and red mixture from the silver tray, "one for her."

The waiter nodded, his pug-like features scrunching and shrinking under the brightness of Frost's wealth and superiority. Frost smiled in appreciation.

_The things we think we know._

A few seconds later, the brunette was clutching the cold drink in her hands, her matching red fingernails curling around the glass possessively. She looked his way, and he turned to meet her glance. Smirking, he raised his glass towards her, her own arm mirroring the movement.

_Cheers._

As she happily chugged down the vodka, Frost studied his own drink, watching, fascinated, as the orange collided with the red. It reminded him of a painter who nicked his finger trying to paint a sunset, his blood mixing with the brightness.

The brunette raised her eyebrows. Frost moved his hands apologetically, disappearing back into the crowd of dancers and bystanders. He would get back to her later. In the corner of his eye, he caught a shadow in green, darting among the golden figures.

He gulped, taking a sip of his drink and letting the burning sensation trickle down his throat, cooling his nerves. C_ooling his nerves? _He grimaced, as if disgusted by his own emotions. _Hell, no. What kind of amateur bullshit am I even thinking about? _

Brushing off the qualm as if it was an irksome mosquito, he pulled a small green packet out of his breast pocket - b_reast pocket, _Frost shuddered, _what kind of self-respecting guy uses a breast pocket? _- and emptied the ghastly powder into the cup.

_Sorry_, he thought, thinking about the hot brunette. _This drink is saved for someone else_.

* * *

After saying "hey" to each other, they stood, for fifteen minutes, in the most excruciatingly awkward silence Elsa had experienced in all her twenty-one years.

Anna stood by her side, her back straight and a smile as real the Joker's, looking like the perfect Duchess. Elsa had been sitting on the throne, trying to observe her subjects with some semblance of interest, but then decided that she was giving off too much hubris and humbly joined her sister. Now they were both standing, backs arched higher than London Bridge. They looked like the perfect duo - no longer Anna and Elsa, but _the Duchess and the Tsarina of Russia. _

It was totally pointless and uncomfortable, but, nevertheless, _awkward._

Elsa grimaced as the golden crown on her head slowly started to crush her skull, and tried to listen to the faint, screeching notes of the Hungarian waltz playing in the background, wishing that she could be out there, dress flowing beneath her as she danced. She wished she could pull Anna's hands and start doing a crazy square dance smack in the middle of the ballroom, laughing and ignoring the strange looks from the wealthy diplomats and ambassadors.

But here they were, standing together doing absolutely _nothing_. Neither of the sisters dared to utter a single syllable.

Once they left the warm chambers and gone into the ballroom, it was as if a switch of propriety had been turned on. All the previous closeness and intimacy between them had vanished, leaving behind a faint trace of shared smiles and joyful giggles, and making way for a new road paved with honor and royalty. _Royalty_ - how Elsa _hated_ that word. Royalty meant calling your relatives _your Grace, your Majesty, your Highness, your any-other-positive-adjective_, using at least ten different utensils at dinnertime, having to spend over five-hundred grand on your _half-birthday party_, and worst of all, having to act formal around your own sister, even when all you really wanted to do was rip off your royal robes and have a chocolate-tasting spree.

But being royal came with certain obligations. The hardest task to perform?

Doing nothing.

"So," Anna's squeaky voice threw Elsa off, "how's, uh, life?"

Elsa tried to hide her surprise. "G- good, I guess. It's good."

"Good, huh?" Anna chuckled. "That's kind of vague, don't you think?" She looked at Elsa. "How have you been?"

Elsa snorted, forgetting she was the most powerful person in the room. "You're very persistent. Is 'good' not satisfying enough?" She turned towards Anna, trying to seem irritated, but her eyes sparkling. "How is _your_ life?"

Anna shrugged. "Good," she said.

"Sorry," Elsa said, trying to hide her smile, "not satisfying enough."

Anna smiled back, and for a fleeting, blissful moment, the sham of propriety and royalty faded away.

"Well, my life is good, I guess," Anna continued. "I mean, life could be a lot better, but I guess I can't complain." Her green eyes scanned the exquisite ballrooms, the vodka that cost five-hundred rubles a bottle, and the silk gowns and leather shoes brushing against the polished floor.

"I could view it as terrible, tedious, of frustrating. But I like to decide to how I view things, and to be totally honest - I don't give a horseshit about any of this." She gestured to her bright surroundings. "But being here, next to someone I love and care about? It's been a good life so far."

Elsa paused, Anna's words not fully embedded in her brain. "Stop talking like you're going to die any minute now."

Anna laughed, but Elsa wasn't sure if it was a joke.

A minute passed. "Nothing's been the same since Mama and Papa," Elsa choked.

For that moment, it was as if the birds of sorrow that had been nesting in Elsa's chest were released, fleeing over the ballroom and flying above the two sisters, tinging the air with tension. The power in her veins surged, crashing like waves against the memory. The air felt colder.

She remembered the feel of warm hands behind her neck, brushing her blonde hair into carefully plaited braids. Of being lifted by a pair of strong arms, laughing as he swung her around. Of family photos with all the family members. Of snowy days where they would have epic snowball fights - Elsa always won - and days where she fell asleep to the smell of strong perfume.

Anna looked away, her eyes clouding over. "Yeah. It's not."

Elsa averted her gaze, suddenly looking at every detail on her blue gloves.

"I- I think I'm going to go outside," Anna said. And with a flash of red, she was gone.

Elsa stood alone for a few minutes, the waltz and voices ringing in her ears. She could feel the ice inside of her body, struggling against repression, ready to burst.

With quick movement, she lifted off her crown, placing it on her seat, and followed Anna outside.

* * *

Frost moved through the dancers like a snake among tall grass, dodging the elaborately clothed figures lithely and furtively.

Or at least, he tried to.

The floor of the ballroom was incredibly vast, and if he squinted his eyes, he could pretend he was in an infinite sea of red and gold. He struggled to keep up with the Tsarina, who was moving even faster than he was, vodka threatening to spill over his tux. His eyes scanned the crowd, trying to focus on the Tsarina's green, slender form.

He followed her past two diplomats discussing the latest conflicts in Spain. He followed her past trays and trays of ridiculously small hors d'oeuvres, little biscuits with caviar stuck onto white plates. Past two lovers, past a balding old man, past a French woman with a small poodle - all the way to the end of the ballroom.

Frost sucked in a puff of air, his knees almost colliding with the floor. The Tsarina stopped, a dozen meters away from him, and surveyed her vicinity nervously, as if she were about to commit an atrocious sin and she didn't want any witnesses. Her eyes never met his, but he caught a glimpse of blue and saw that same emotion - the fear, the uncertainty.

With one last glance over her shoulder, she slipped through the curtain and into the cool, night air.

Frost followed.

* * *

Elsa tensed as she felt the sudden decrease in temperature. Somehow, she didn't mind. The cold was exhilarating.

"Anna!" she called, her voice echoing through the darkness, past the snow-laden streets and over the arches of the cathedrals.

When only the sound of wind replied, she cupped her gloved hands and called again. "_Anna_!"

No answer.

She walked around the courtyard, her feet burying themselves under the snow. The sudden change from the ballroom was apparent - outside, there were no voices, no lights. Only darkness and the cold. The brash wind whipped her hair into her face, and she spat as the blonde strands found their way into her mouth.

Squinting, she scanned the entire courtyard. On the right was a large, stone bench, a frozen fountain, and a pine tree.

No Anna.

She turned to the left, surveying the area carefully. She saw the big oak tree, its branches bare and sagging under the weight of the snow. Although she rarely ever left her room, she sometimes saw Anna there on summer days, reading either Tolstoy or Proust - her favorites.

But there was no paperback novel lying beneath that tree, no redhead sitting there, legs crossed and sipping on lemonade.

She began to wonder if Anna had run away, sick and tired of the opulence they lived in, to live life as a simple country girl, perhaps. Or maybe she'd joined the circus, the dance troupe. Elsa heart gave an nearly audible _thump_ as she pictured the other possible scenarios that could have happened outside the palace. The thought of a strange man giving Anna a free ride to the whorehouse made her want to vomit.

_No_, she berated herself. _Anna is alive, and she's here. _

"Way to go, _Elsa_," she whispered to herself. "You had one chance to talk to her today, and you failed."

What was she thinking, bringing up a risky subject like the death of her parents? She replayed the paraphrased conversation in her mind.

_Oh, hey lil' sis._

_Hey, big sis._

_How's life?_

_Good, nothing much. How's yours?_

_It's all cool, man. Oh hey, guess what?_

_What, dude?_

_Your parents are dead._

She smacked her forehead. _Stupid._

She could've waited for a better time - when they were alone, when they weren't at a public event - to bring up the subject, but she didn't. But she didn't. Her parents' death was another thing keeping them from being together like they were when they were younger.

Perhaps she had sent her sister to her room, too upset to enjoy the party.

Sighing, Elsa decided that she will approach Anna later, perhaps after the frenetic gala was over. She turned to look through one of the brightly-lit windows. The dancers were still twirling, the drinkers drinking. She didn't want to go back in - no, not without Anna, not without a reason to be in there. Although she was the most important attendee, rarely anyone ever noticed when she was gone. She sat down on the bench, not caring it the snow stained her dress.

Glancing at the quiet night sky, she took off her gloves, her fingers stretching and coming to life in the cold air. Now that she was out of the din and chaos, she could concentrate on her meditation. _Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in, out. In, out._

_A small speck._

Eyes closed, she put herself in her icy oblivion, concentrating on not being distracted, ignoring the dancers, the music. The cold enveloped her, never giving her a moment of respite or warmth, blood pounding in her ears, snowflakes melting on her face and neck. _It is cold_, she told herself, _feel the cold. _She inhaled, exhaled, again and again, trying to force her brain to send signals to her nerves to tell her just _how _cold it was.

It didn't work. The temperature felt as warm as always - just right, actually - and her brain couldn't seem to differentiate the snow from her body, as if they were the same thing, as if they were _one_.

She didn't want it. She didn't want to be a weird, snow-shooting monster thing. She didn't want to be an inseparable part of the ice. She wanted to be a normal, warm human being who felt the cold when she was supposed to.

But the cold didn't bother her - it _never_ did, anyway.

Shoulders sagging in futility, she turned to her right again and-

-screamed.

* * *

**Elsa really has a charming way with words.**

**I'm terrible at writing angst. Me writing angst is akin to George R.R. Martin writing a ****fluffy romantic comedy. _Seriously_.**

**Anyway, I hope you guys stuck through that awkward chapter because the next chapter is - you guessed it - Jelsa meeting! **

**I won't be on for the next week due to traveling, so I won't be able to update for a while. But hang in there guys - Jelsa is coming, I promise.**

**All of those who review, fave, and follow get a Ferrari and a cookie. ;)**


	3. The Girl in Green

**I'm back from my month-long hiatus! Sorry, but I was traveling and volunteering a lot and barely had time to add to this.**

**Now that I look at this with a clear head (aka with much more sleep) I'm wondering what kind of crack I was on when I wrote this.****  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Jelsa, Frozen, Kim Il-Sung, or the Spice Girls (unfortunately).**

**Here's your Jelsa meeting, as promised, kids.**

**xoxo ****Gossip Girl/ncarraway**

* * *

"The problem with winter sports is that - follow me closely here - they generally take place in winter." – Dave Barry

* * *

Throughout his years at G.U.A.R.D., Frost had survived a lot. Explosions, gunshots, punches, shark bites, bear bites, squirrel bites, duck bites (woodland critters are inexplicably aggressive) - any kind of terrifying act of violence, you name it.

Now he had to add "snowball in the face" to his personal list of near-death experiences.

The impact was sharp, fast, and potent enough to send his free hand flying to his nose.

For one minute, he forgot about chivalry. "Ow," he yelped, nearly spilling his drink, "what was that for?"

His aggressor scoffed. "What do you mean? You're the one who snuck up on me!"

Frost blinked the snow out of his eyelashes, and then coughed, remembering his ultimate intention. "Forgive me," he said, brushing the snow off of his face and trying to ignore the stark decrease in temperature, "but you startled me, _your_ _grace_." He knew speaking fluent Russian would prove to be useful at some point.

A girl emerged slowly, almost tentatively, from obscuring darkness, dress as green and fresh as pine, skin as pale and soft as snow. Her hair was unusual - a pale blonde, almost as white as his - coiling around her head in elaborate plaits like soft, golden vines.

Raising one dark eyebrow, the Tsarina moved two pale hands in front of her face, poising them warily as if they were weapons.

He moved forward, his knees still aching from the mile-long trek across the ballroom, and the Tsarina recoiled, almost like a frightened animal, but then resumed her stiff, imperturbable posture.

"How am I supposed to know that you aren't following me?" she interrogated, "no one just comes out here in this weather for a little _stroll_, you know."

Ten seconds in and she's already suspicious. He had to turn this situation around.

Frost smiled, a comely smile that would usually do the trick. The Tsarina's face remained as cold and placid as before. He coughed.

"My apologies for startling you, but I noticed you were alone in the ballroom." He moved closer to her, close enough to feel her body warmth radiating, and went down on one knee.

"Nobody deserves to be alone," he purred, "especially someone as-" he paused for the right, swoon-worthy adjective that would send her fainting into his arms "-_exquisite_ as you."

He looked up, and was met with a pair of shockingly cold blue eyes, eyes similar to his own.

"Nikodem Parvorski," he said. "and I believe that you need no introduction."

Her cheeks flushed just enough for him to know that his charm was working (definitely not because it was cold, _no_ - his dexterity with the opposite sex surely never failed him).

He tried to look for that anxiety in her eyes, but it was gone, replaced by the unfeeling blue orbs, orbs with a certain balance of experience and naivety, of courage and fear, of freedom and confinement. It wasn't until then when he understood:

Her eyes were the eyes of one not to be trifled with.

His deduction proved correct. Before he could kiss her hand, another snowball collided with his face.

"Ow!" he cried again, letting go of her hand. "What is your _problem_?"

The Tsarina smiled. "My, _my_," she said, shaking her head in mock disgust, "don't you know that's no way to address royalty?"

"Look," Frost said, getting up from the ground, "I'm sorry-"

Another snowball. Granules of snow had found their way into his suit, into his hair, and _oh_ _God_ - was it really in his pants?

Frost stared up at the sky, not knowing if he was seeing stars or if those were real, non-hallucinatory, flaming balls of gas.

This was more difficult than he thought.

_Stupid_, he thought, _you should've approached her inside_. Less suspicious, perhaps?

The vodka was on his right, spilled across the snow. He sighed.

Was it always been so difficult? No. That girl in Paris - he was invited into her room on the first date. The leggy brunette in Salvador, that took about five seconds. The blonde in Finland - what was her name, Anya, Anne? Gloria, Sapphire, Mei Lin, Monica, Natasha, the Adler woman, and that poor daughter of the French ambassador. The list goes on.

Today was rough day for him.

He heard the sound of crunching snow and felt her shadow over him.

"Next time you want to marry your way into the Romanov family, try my sister," she said, her own hot breath mingling with his own. "God knows she's awfully flexible with men."

She paused, as if her brain had just registered something, putting the puzzle pieces together with an enlightening click.

Her eyes widened. "_You_-"

He felt something cold and pointed on his neck, pressing lethally into his flesh, the frigid sensation almost cutting off his circulation. The Tsarina's blue eyes were approximately two centimeters away from his own, tinted red with anger.

There was something on the back of his neck that was pulling him towards her face. He struggled against it, and it tightened. It was her arm.

"How-" he started, but she pressed the sharp end of the icicle into his skin even more. He could of sworn she wasn't holding that a second ago. Their noses were almost touching now.

Frost almost laughed at the irony. His goal for the evening was to get close to the Tsarina, and now he was. Just not in a pleasant way.

"_Where_ _is_ _she_?"

A chill ran down his spine, but not from the cold.

"What?" He asked, truly puzzled. They didn't pay him enough for this.

"Don't pretend to be oblivious, you filthy whoreseller," she hissed, pressing the icicle against his neck even more. The air around them grew colder. _If I can't make it_, Frost offered silently, I_ hope the crazy bitch freezes to death_.

"I'm not pretending to be oblivious, because I, uh, genuinely have no idea what's going on." He panted, his warm, erratic breaths creating vestiges of smoke in the air.

"_Liar_." The tip of the icicle penetrated his flesh, cooling the blood around it.

Blue eyes. Large, chatoyant, blue irises piercing past his own. He sighed.

"This wasn't really how I planned this."

Her blue eyes narrowed. "I'm assuming that you wanted this to go a lot smoother."

"Yep."

"So tell me, Mr. Parvorski, if you're not here by some malicious motive, what is your intent?" Her cold fingers tightened at his neck.

"I just wanted to give you a drink, okay? Is the concept so hard to gauge? You know, chivalry is not dea-"

"Don't play this game with me," she said, her nails crawling into his pale hair. "We both know very, very well that you're not here out of the goodness of your heart."

Those eyes. She had to stop staring at him with those eyes.

He could have easily shot her at the moment, but he couldn't. No, it would be too clumsy. The perfect assassination had to be meticulously coordinated and executed - no blood stains, no fuss. He had to be more subtle.

(Also, he couldn't quite ... bring himself to do it.)

He was taught from a young age to show no emotion, no sympathy towards a stranger - especially one he had to kill. It was never a problem, not until now, not until this beautiful autocrat showed up and somehow, inadvertently, reminded him of the same fear that had haunted him for years.）

But mostly because of professional reasons, of course.

"Sorry," he said warily.

"For what?" She asked. Breeze rolled from the sky and lifted her platinum tresses.

Before he could reply, he took two fingers and jabbed her side, quickly twisting off her arm and throwing her onto the ground.

Another thing more practical than speaking Russian: ju-jitsu.

The Tsarina gasped as she hit the white powder, pushing her palms against the ground to steady herself.

"Look," Frost said, holding his arms out defensively, "I need you to calm dow-"

The Tsarina stood up, breathing heavily.

From his angle, she looked like a vengeful goddess, with the moon illuminating her pale features and her stern face. Bright, majestic - but dangerous.

This wasn't supposed to happen. He needed to liquidate her efficiently and quietly, but he was already on her bad side. What was he to do?

At the moment, with the Tsarina inching closer to him irately and inexorably, he knew he only had one option:

_Run_.

He only moved about two feet until he felt himself being dragged down by an icy hand. He tried to move his arms, but they were incapsulated in an cold, viselike grip.

Within moments, his head collided with the snow. Blackness seeped into his eyes, and ice crystals stabbed against his eyelids, his nose, and his other regions.

He felt something heavy and cold pinning him down on his back, and in his personal darkness his check scraped against the snow, shards of ice embedding themselves into his flesh. _Was she doing this? Was she really that strong?_ He struggled under the mysterious weight on his back, but it continued dragging him, as slowly and unrelentingly as before.

"Shit," he hissed as snow entered his mouth from his blue lips, threatening to spill into his throat. No way, he asserted himself, letting his breath warm the ice in his organs, _I am not dying of asphyxia_.

"Blondie," he gasped, doubting that she could hear him from his precarious position, "I get the message." He made a mental note to himself to never piss off an estranged female ruler again.

The strange weight above him suddenly flipped him over so that he was lying on his back. He realized that he was cold, cold everywhere, and that, to his horror, the Tsarina was definitely not on top of him.

Instead, she stood across from him, her feet planted firmly in the snow and her eyes aglow with rage. "I'm going to give you an ultimatum," she said, her back hunched for attack, "you tell me where my sister is, or-"

She flicked her wrist upwards, and Frost's entire world turned ninety degrees.

He was in an upright position now, utterly perplexed and longing for a bottle of gin.

That was until he saw what he was in.

His entire body, with the exception of his head, was incased in ice. In _ice_. Pure, flawless coils of ice that wrapped around his feet to his shoulders, threatening to freeze his reproductive regions on any given incentive.

He would have admired the ice particles for their immaculate beauty - for the way they distorted the moonlight into smooth, multicolored ripples - if he had not been in this particularly unfavorable situation.

His eyes glossing over his frozen entirety, he gave a mental cry of despair as he realized that the Tsarina had not laid a single finger on him. How was she doing this? Was she - could it be - controlling the ice?

"How are-" he began, but was cut off by the ice tightening around his torso. The Tsarina twisted her wrist as if she were screwing in a deadly lightbulb, her solid blue eyes focusing solely on Frost's icy straight jacket. With each twist, Frost's body spasmed and struggled. The ice clenched tighter.

He peered down at his shoulder. It was blue. He was going to die, he was going to freeze and suffocate simultaneously. _Wow, what a great way to go,_ he thought. At least it beat getting eaten alive by ducks.

_This couldn't possibly be happening_, he thought. Ice powers - _no_, that's _impossible_. They're only from movies, from comics, from stories, from heavily-marketed Disney movies, from stories where the hero/heroine also think that it couldn't possibly be happening. The Snow Queen came from fairy tales where she kidnapped young children with her evil swarm of bees. She didn't manifest herself in the form of a hot tsarina, and she certainly didn't make her victims disillusioned assassins who work for a secret agency.

Frost heaved, his exhalation a stifled cry that forced it's way out of his frozen esophagus, his arms pressing against his side precariously, giving him the sensation that his innards would slowly pop out from the pressure. His vision fluttered, fluctuating without warning before him, turning from blue to gray to an acid magenta, and he wanted to open his mouth to choke out the three true words that would likely get him nowhere-

I don't know.

Very few people have the ability to think when they're a minute away from death, especially if it's a life-or-death situation concerning a pissed-off ice sorceress. Usually, if the average person were put in such a situation, their analytical abilities would be stymied by the fact that there's a_ fucking ice woman_ in front of them _choking them to death with her biologically impossible ice powers_, and they would die before she even could finish the deed, likely passing out of shock and a copious amount of disbelief.

Too bad Frost was not your average person.

His mind, naturally, tried to place the scattered bits of information together, bending and contorting them into a sensical equation that would give him the perfect solution to get out of this problem.

_Evil ice sorceress + Tsarina + Winter Palace + Sister + Blondie = Russia = Putin + Winter Olympics + Communism = Oppressive government = North Korea = Kim Il-Sung = Gangnam Style = K-pop = Girl bands = Spice Girls ..._

The inside of his mind filled with different thoughts, one leading to another, leading to another until his head hurt.

He remembered when he first started out with GUARD, he had a colleague/co-conspirator who worked for the IT department (hacking government databases, that kind of stuff), a scrawny kid, Ryan, who had just graduated cum laude from MIT. He was a curious kid, which irked Frost sometimes because he asked far too many questions, many to which Frost responded with various obscenities, but Frost liked him because they shared the same enthusiasm for working with GUARD. But Ryan suspected GUARD had secrets they were not telling their employees. One day, he hacked into some of GUARD's most confidential databases, looking for answers. He was never seen since.

_Yes_, Frost thought, _thank you, Ryan!_

After a while, when he felt the inside of his brain turning blue out of low temperature and confusion, he decided that solving the entire thing, putting the pieces together, wasn't going to be conducive to anything.

It was better to be alive and clueless than informed and dead. For him, at least, this was the best option. He couldn't get answers dead.

"Wait," he gasped, "I know, I- I know where your sister is."

Instantly the ice stopped it's deadly squeeze, shrinking just enough for him to gasp for air breath of cool air.

The Tsarina's features softened, her eyes widening. "You know?"

"Ye-yes," he choked. His vision slowly reverted itself back to normalcy, and he saw the pine trees, the snow, and the soft outline of the Tsarina against the lights of the palace, her deadly curves and all. He was breathing heavily now, and his inside felt brittle, as if even a small twitch would crack his fundamental organs.

Shaking the stars out of his head, he looked at the Tsarina, catching her blue gaze with his own.

"Let me out, and I'll tell you," he said. His usual haughtiness was gone, replaced by a look of somber solemness.

The Tsarina blinked her large doe eyes, and for a moment, it was impossible not to see the small sliver of hope in her irises. Her face quickly hardened, her mouth forming a grim line.

"And you expect me to trust you?" She inquired.

"I don't. But if you do, I promise I will help you find your sister. I know where she is."

"And I am supposed to believe you because-"

"Who _else_ could you trust? Who _else_ would I know?"

The Tsarina said nothing.

"Meet me here in two days," Frost continued, "at this exact spot. I will show you everything I know.

The Tsarina nodded warily. Frost figured all of that ice voodoo left her exhausted - even the rage in her eyes slowly waned.

"Release me, and I'll see you soon," he said, and his dozen prison thawed completely, his world turning several dozen degrees warmer.

The Tsarina's hair was a mess, her dress was soiled with snow, and her eyes dropped in the darkness.

"You're tired," Frost said slowly, hypnotically, his voice rocking like a vocal pendulum.

The Tsarina nodded. "Go," she said.

He turned to leave, but one icy tendril reached out and jerked him back. "Three things," she hissed, "one - you saw nothing tonight. Two, you will come back here in two days, no delays, no last-minute excuses." She took several steps forward, and Frost saw that the ice rope wrapped around his leg was curled around her slim wrist.

"And three - if you break any of my regulations," her gaze lowered menacingly, "I will have my men and their wolf-dogs track you down, step by step, and I will personally come and impale you against the wall of your own home and condemn you as a traitor to this country for the rest of history." The ice claw around his leg tightened. "Is that clear?"

He tried not to gulp. He tried.

"Yes, I understand."

The tendril relaxed against his ankle. "Good. Now show me where you live in case you-"

In three-and-a-half heartbeats, the chloroform towel in his hand was pressed against her mouth, her waist caught in his arm. She struggled for a few seconds, but then stopped as her body slowly slid into his arms.

"I'm not actually Polish, by the way," Frost said, "I'm Frost. Just call me Frost."

"American?" She asked in his native tongue as she drifted away into unconsciousness.

"Yeah," he said, "sorry, but I can't risk letting you follow me."

She was fully asleep now, so peaceful, her long eyelashes brushing her skin.

For a second, he had a crazy thought: he wanted to stay longer.

He could have killed her then, easily and efficiently. But she was so young, and she had a gift that many would kill for. She could be useful.

He should have just left her in the snow. He carried her closer to the palace - which was a dumbass move, what would the palace guards think if they saw him with the unconscious Tsarina? - and placed her near the warmth light, wrapping her cloak around her more.

He should have left her in the snow. He was Frost, Agent Frost, and he was way above this tender, sentimental crap. He should have left her in the snow.

He should have followed orders, disposed of her right there, but an inexplicable feeling in his gut made him give her his jacket and lightly brush some snow off of her hair. He should have listened to his employer, obedience, and let her die in the cold, he should have left her in the snow.

He couldn't. Not this time.

GUARD needed this girl dead for a reason, and now Frost had a hunch that that reason might be because she was an ice-controlling queen, a snow queen, which he only ever saw in comic books and fairy tales as a little kid.

Ryan was right, GUARD did have something that they weren't telling them.

He crossed his fingers and hoped that her sister was really missing and not just absent for fifteen minutes, or else this would just be a crazy, reckless plan that would serve no purpose and would leave him for dead. He needed it to be a crazy, reckless plan that would serve a purpose (and preferably not kill him).

For the first time in his life, he was going to disobey orders from above.

For the first time in his life, he needed answers.

* * *

The ground was cold when she awoke, her mouth still reeking the sterile scent of whatever drug had rendered her unconscious.

She coughed, the noxious fumes making their way up her throat and threatening to make her heave the contents her supper. She rolled over, pushing off a jacket that was definitely not her own, and propped herself up on both hands, her arms shaking slightly. She felt something nibbling at the back of her mind, irritating her with its inexplicability.

Slowly, carefully, she pieced together the events of the evening.

Her sister. Her powers. A stranger.

She suddenly remembered what was bothering her, one extremely important part of the puzzle, and it all made sense.

Tentatively, as if testing to see if it was toxic, that one word rolled off of her tongue:

_Frost_.

* * *

**Yo kids like thanks for all of those amazing reviews, follows, and faves! No Ferraris will be provided, however. I lied. **

**Please be an amazing human being and review and stuff! **


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